Little and Quiet and Safe
by justsomeprettylightsinthesky
Summary: But you're not any of those things.
1. 1

-maggie-

 _"I love you."_

 _You start at the confusingly affectionate statement._

 _"No one has ever called my brother 'The Other Doctor Sheperd'," she explains, as you continue to match her pace._

Oh _, you think. That's maybe the first time today that you've stumbled into saying the right thing._

-amelia-

The service is surreal.

Body details appear to you. Addison's arm around you, Cristina's and Meredith's clasped hands, your mother's pink-rimmed eyes. It's almost his lack of physicality that reminds you: Mark really should have been here.

Words reach you less easily. The first ones come through Bailey's tear-stained cheeks: _We're going to have to let you leave_.

Owen has little curves in the skin of his face, and these words: _I'm here for you_.

Maggie Pierce has expressed her condolences only a minute ago, not that you could recall what she said. Her hands lightly grasp a glass of champagne. Delicate bubbles break the surface.

You're aware of your hands going to fuss with the cloth hanging over your sides.

One of her hands parts from the flute and gestures gently towards you. "You are so gorgeous."

 **You are so gorgeous** _. Handsome shoulders and a charming face decompose into cold blue cheeks and lips. Ryan. Those were_ your _last words from him,_ your _last moments with him._ You blink. It's Pierce's face there now, looking something like remorseful.

"But I mean you don't have to be, it's not about that…" she ventures, because great, she's noticed, not that she knows you're scarcely concerned with beauty right now. "I mean, but you are," she continues, clearly unable to stop digging herself into a hole.

You try for some kind of polite smile as you excuse yourself.

-maggie, some weeks later-

When the doorbell rings, you turn down the TV volume a bit as a half-assed attempt at hiding and harrumph gently about solicitors. But when it rings a fourth time, you finally get up and open the door, to find Dr. Amelia Shepard dropping her arm to her side.

"Doctor Sheperd," you state, for lack of anything else.

"Amelia, please," she says, the way someone might dryly tell a friend to knock it off. "But I appreciate the use of the title," she adds with a crooked, possibly insincere smile.

She then gestures loosely towards the inside of your doorway, and you— "Oh, of course," step aside to let her in. With no hesitation, she walks in, leaves her coat on your closet door, and crosses her legs on your couch. "Um, I have some… food, I think…" you start to suggest, and she looks up, looking surprisingly comfortable. On your couch. Where she was not invited.

"Nah, I'm good." So far, zero attempts at sugarcoating by Amelia Shepard, who is now surveying your apartment. There's the stack of puzzle boxes, the corkboard, the lone string of folded gold paper stars.

"Oh, okay…. Can I get you a drink?" She looks up from her spot on the couch, eyes possibly more fierce than usual. You don't know how someone can so consistently embody uncertainty and ferociousness simultaneously. It pauses you.

"I'm sober," she says, almost belligerently. Now, you've made this face before. Quite a lot since you've come to Seattle, because it's the face that happens when—

"Yeah, that was the wrong thing to say to an alcoholic," she says, no less _Amelia_ but a little more quietly, a little more gently.

"I kind of keep saying the wrong thing," you start. "To everyone."

"Well, just don't mention cheating to Callie Torres. Or dead brothers to Amelia Shepard," she adds with a tilt in her voice. After a quiet moment, during which she's only raised her eyebrows, she pats the couch twice. "No, I don't need anything. What are you watching?" You cross the room.

You sit.

a/n: Just a short bit to see if anyone is interested in Maggie and Amelia?


	2. 2

-maggie-

A strange sort of pattern starts. Every couple of weeks the bell will ring, and when you open the door Amelia will be there, rained-upon or smiling brightly or looking fierce or all three.

You'll sit together on the couch with dinner or at the table with ice cream or turn up your little speakers and dance. It's a simple routine for something that doesn't feel so simple.

You never say it, because somehow you know not to. The things she says about him, she might not even know it. But the reason she arrives on your doorstep is that she lost a brother. The reason she comes inside without so much as an invitation, leaving her coat upon your closet door is that you lost a sister.

-amelia-

She's unsurprised to find you outside her door.

She just waves you in, white headphones telling you she's on the phone. _{Oh, things are just… fine here.}_ She brings her fingers to the volume control on the wire.

"Mom? What's up?"

"I'm just gonna..." you mumble, making towards the kitchen trying to give her space, but her mom's tone changes, perking up.

 _{Is someone there?}_ And then she sounds so hopeful. _{You're having friends over?}_ She gasps. _{Or is it a date?}_

"Yes, Mom, it's a friend," she explains a little exasperatedly. While the change of subject has not escaped her notice, it's all over her face that she can't help feeling a little touched and embarrassed by her mom's excitement over the possibility that she might have made friends.

 _{Well, I'll let you go, then, I love you honey bun…_ _}_

"I love you too, Mom. Talk to you later." She barely finishes the last word before she ends the call, pulling out the ear buds.

"Everything… okay?" you ask, a little leadingly. Something's obviously up.

"It's nothing."

Hmm. "Okay, sure. Well, I've had a _day_ , and I feel like turning up the music real loud. You in?"

She _pffts_ a little air through her lips, says, "okay, my turn though," and pulls up music on her phone. Plugs it in, hits shuffle. Presses play.

The first few notes wander out from the speaker. It's definitely not club music. Your head tilts. _Three little birds, sat on my window_ ….

"Is this... Corinne Bailey Rae? You... you cheeseball. Let me see your music."

"No, my music is very cool, excuse you—" she starts, jokingly adamant.

"Yeah, but the point is to, like, _get out of your mind_ ; which, by the way, is the title of a great song, that's more like what we could be listening to?" You welcome yourself to her phone and start skipping tracks. Alt rock? Some slow stuff? Really? "Huh. The Head and the Heart, hey that's kinda like you and me, aha ha, cardio and neuro."

"Who's the cheeseball now, huh?"

"Okay, but honestly what do you dance to?"

"Give me that." Just to be annoying, she skips back until those few strums play again. She holds out her hand, and when you only meet it with a judgmental look, she gently closes her fingers; rotates her hands up, moves her shoulders, sways her hips.

"This is not working."

"Oh, shh. Focus on the melody and," she holds her hand out again, "let yourself get into the good little things. Or something like that. Try it." You make sure to shoot a discontented look, then smack one hand into hers. She pulls your arm in her same flow and smirks as you concede, twisting a little just as the chorus starts.

"Shut up." She opens her hands and looks down in a silent apology, but doesn't bother to temper the smile spreading.

The tempo slows and Maggie just lowers; hands, eyes, hips all drop just enough and she dances up to you, letting a lightheartedly sultry expression play on her face. Laughing a bit, you play along; you put your hands on her hips the way straight boys do, and twist your hips until the tempo picks back up and she sings, " _girl, put your records on, tell me your favorite song_. Actually that's a good question. Tell me your favorite song," she challenges, fixing an inquisitive look on you.

You let your head tilt to communicate your exhaustion over the corniness of the question. It conveniently covers your hesitation. "Bad Girls, M.I.A."

She just nods, like it comes as no surprise, but then perks up and watches your mouth as you sing half the final line. Just a couple of words, really: _somewhere, somehow_. The slow, surprised smile that spreads across her face strikes you as sweet; but then she squints one eye and comfortably tries you. "I bet you know all the words."

You squint one eye back grouchily. "You better not tell anyone."

-maggie-

You've never had pizza on Christmas Eve, but quite honestly you're just so pleased to have been invited. There's even something endearing about the half-lit tree.

Arizona is understandably, temporarily a little withdrawn. You heard her explain to Alex that she gets to spend tomorrow with Sofia, but there's no ignoring the fact that she's away from her family tonight. Jackson, ever charming or at least handsome, is distracted by poor cell service. It's some kind of Christmas for the misfit toys, but there's heart: Richard brings in a yule log, looking like everyone's uncle, and Jo eventually puts on some holiday tunes.

"You need a friend," Arizona suddenly directs at you.

"Um, excuse me?" you piece together in a brilliant response.

"Look, you're kind of new here and you need friends and I'm a great friend, so, we're going to be friends." She still looks like a little wistful, but you can tell it's a genuine declaration. "Tell me about the worst date you've ever been on."

You scramble for a few seconds before Alex, out of nowhere, leans in to pick up another slice of cheese pizza and states, "I'll start. I was hooking up with a girl in her car, and a cop knocked on the window. The thing was, it wasn't her car. Then she tries to blame me, and act like I was the one who stole it."

Arizona lights up when she laughs, then says, "I'll go. In high school, this girl knocked me into a pile of mud, but then she wanted to make out. While I was still sitting in this gross puddle."

Then they turn to you, and you feel the slightest flush at their attention, then the words tumbling out of you. "He told me that I reminded him of his mom. After we kissed."

They're silent, and you're caught with all kinds of anticipation in your throat. "Dude, that's messed up," Karev says.

"Yeah seriously, you win," Arizona says, raising her eyebrows and her mug to toast yours in a show of respect.

Jo joins in, challenging your win. "Okay, but get this..."

You take turns, trying to win the most devastated groans or the most ribald laughter from the others. Richard makes this kind of disappointed face, and mumbles something about the priorities of this generation before he leaves to answer the knocking at the door. He returns with Amelia, who's in a deep blue and black sweater.

"Oh, Amelia, come in, we're talking about worst dates."

"Yikes. Hey, did I ever tell you about the time I went out with a guy who didn't talk? Like, the entire time?" she slides out of the side of her mouth, low and amused.

"You know, that is not an uncommon theme, regrettably," Arizona chuckles.

The conversation eventually wanders from there, and you end up quiet, mostly. These people are funny, and sweet with each other even in their heckling. Affection slowly swells up inside of you, along with a feeling like bubbles about how they might be your friends.

When you were new to Seattle, you'd found that Amelia didn't mind when you set your lunch down at her table. You had the feeling there were unspoken bonds and rivalries, an entire network of connections only you couldn't see. When you discovered the truth of who Richard is to you, you decided you were right. Secret exes and flames and sisters and friends filled the little lunchroom those days: it would take months to get the pieces together, but with her you didn't feel you were intruding.

You didn't expect to feel like she was intruding upon you. "Hey, remember that time you said there was a gap between you and most people?"

You take a hearty gulp of strong eggnog. "Yes?"

"What's that all about?"

"Uh, well..." The directness of the question is certainly a surprise. "I don't..." She adjusts herself slightly, her hands, her neck, the way she's sitting, then looks back at you. Like she's settling in for an explanation. "I was always younger than the other kids. I don't know, there's just always something between me and other people."

"Yeah, but I mean, I just typically go for it. You gotta figure out the shortest distance between you and another person."

"Wait, there are different paths? Not just… some insurmountable ditch? Or force field, or whatever?" She ignores this revelation, like she hasn't just obliterated your worldview in a couple of words.

"You've already decided people don't like you. You've decided there's this gap between you and the rest of the world, so you don't try as much as you could with them." You can't hold her searing gaze, those cool blues. Instead, you observe her hands, holding a plastic cup of water.

"So you don't drink."

You know nothing about the lived experience of addiction. You are very smart and accomplished, but it seems you don't know a fraction as much about life as the people here. How's that for a gap? You've found yourself thinking questions like: _Does it get easier? Should I offer to go to a meeting?_ And questions you don't consider verbalizing, like: _What are meetings like? What does it feel like, to need it? How do you stay clean?_

"I think I already told you I'm an alcoholic. That kinda pretty much covers it."

But the warmth of the eggnog and of the flush in your cheeks from the earlier questions make you brave enough to ask more.

-amelia, now-

"Yeah, but that can't be all there is." She's looking at you like a dare, or like... what sends a little, cool drip of insecurity down your lungs is the impression that she's assessing you somehow.

"Look, I'm not any kind of... puzzle for you to put together and raise some tiny flag when you figure it out. And I refuse to indulge this stupid metaphor, but if I were going to, you should know better than to think there are even all the pieces here or whatever." She gives you a very curious stare. Exactly like she's working on solving something.

You're about to get irritated when she says, "I know." Still giving you that look. "That's not what I think of you." And you're struck vulnerable, because suddenly you don't know where you stand, but she continues. "If you were high… how would I know?"

 _Sheldon's office, years ago._ **If I were high, I wouldn't need you. If I were high, I would be able to breathe, to forget** _. Your reward is a reaction, certainly: disgust and concern folded into his face, a victory that quickly fades into shame._

"I won't be."

-maggie, that night-

Callie Torres is the type of person who envisions loving arms and gentle lips as she falls asleep, but you, Margaret Pierce, are not.

But as your head settles heavy into a pillow and shoulders loosen, a thought of softness trails into your mind. Warmth in cotton and in skin. Darkness, but for what's illuminated by the lights outside and by touch. Hands, delicate but steady, soft. And maybe… lips, shaped to adorn, darken, illustrate, elucidate. Then maybe… you're jolted to alertness, a state where it's fortunately harder to take corny late night thoughts seriously; unfortunately, not any easier to forget blue and skin and skin and skin.

a/n: forgive me for posting christmas in the tenth month.


	3. 3

a/n: this story, particularly this chapter, will use a significant number of lines directly out of the show, as it treads within canon except for one inconsistency: that maggie should find amelia on new year's day. I do not claim that they are mine. to the reviewer confused about where this story is going: it will encompass season 11. if anything, it is some of what I imagine we may have missed, particularly in meredith's absence.

-maggie, new year's eve-

"I'm a little worried about Amelia," you say, finally, on maybe the twentieth round of saying it silently.

"Really?" Arizona responds, a noodle just barely hanging out of her mouth, which she quickly sorts out. "I didn't know you guys were that good of friends? Such close friends?" she continues skeptically, correcting her own grammar.

"We hang out sometimes. She comes over."

"Okay." The hand holding her fork tilts away from her face. "So what's up?"

"I," the word, drawn out, tilts as you pull some kind of face, "don't know if she's talked to anyone. About, you know. Derek."

"She talks about it all the time, from what I hear."

"You know what I mean. Not wisecracks about dead brothers." The way she steels herself at those last two words, a suspicion slips into your mind. "Arizona… I didn't…"

"It happened a long time ago. You didn't know. It's okay." You struggle for something to say. "He was in the army."

"That's really brave. I'm sorry." She resumes eating her lunch.

"And um, Arizona, I um… I have another question." You should probably ask another time, when you've given her fewer clues, but it would be kinder to change the subject. "How do you figure out what someone with an open heart is really feeling? If they're not always able to you know… see what's really in it?"

"Oh, honey. I feel that. My ex-wife is on that wavelength. Look, you gotta go with your gut, because if you're not getting answers what else do you have to go on?" Not exactly the kind of advice you were looking for, but it's helpful anyway. Alright, not supremely helpful, but you have patients to check up on.

If you had stayed a little longer, you might not have missed the moment that it occurred to Arizona to interpret your words to mean she should check on Amelia.

-amelia, a little later-

"Amelia, I'm gonna need us to skip the butterflies-in-your-tummy, first and second date stage and go right to being solid friends."

"Uh, well, Arizona, okay." You're not sure how Arizona Robbins just appeared in this room, lit up blue by scans covering the walls, but you smile. She takes a deep breath, then looks up at you.

"I ate a lot of doughnuts. I ate a lot of doughnuts and it helped when my brother died. I liked the little white powdery ones."

"Mmm. Well. Probably on the second date you would have heard all about how I'm not interested in doughnuts, I'm an addict, so you can take your bullshit white powder impulse control allegory to some other girl with a dead brother, thanks, I'm gonna go—"

"Wait!" She's whirled around to follow you on your way to the door. She blinks almost annoyedly at the ceiling before making eye contact again. "That was kind of a stupid way to start. I don't… I don't talk about this very often and when I do, it's just kind of how I start."

Her hands have been in her pockets the entire time, and there's a stupid monkey pinned on. Okay.

"I didn't get to see him. I didn't get to say goodbye." If you thought for a second that maybe you could listen: never fucking mind.

-maggie, new year's day-

It didn't take long for word of Amelia's outburst to spread.

It's the kind of night where the cold wipes the skin on the tightest curves of the face: it steals from ends of noses, apples of cheeks, edges of lips, and where the center of the brow dips into eye sockets. If you sigh, like you do as you shove the car door so it'll close satisfactorily loudly, your breath condenses thin. If you tuck your chin so it rests just inside your scarf, there's a trace of how chill feels magical like it does before Christmas; but it's January, so it's just cold.

It is cold, what you are thinking about, when you bounce up the steps of the Sheperd deck. It is not cold that sneaks into your cheeks at the sight of Amelia in her leather jacket, but it is what percolates through the core of you when she speaks.

"I have a baggie full of black-market oxy in my pocket and I'm trying to decide whether or not to take it."

She holds it up. Flips it between her fingers. Sniffs. "I've got the Dead Derek thing completely managed. I know people were worried," her voice transforms into a low thing, rueful. "Since he died everybody's been looking at me, waiting for me to fall apart or freak out or just—" she spreads her hands and makes this noise, like an explosion heard from far, far away. "Become a mess."

You're not sure you have ever wanted to say something like wait more than when she so easily compares herself to an explosion. But she is still smiling, and you know that. You know what that means so intimately.

"Like some bomb everyone thinks is supposed to go off. My mother was calling, three, four times a day. Addison was calling, everyone," —she's becoming more agitated, she's taking steps in place— "it makes sense. It's natural."

"Every man I have ever loved. Has died. Including my baby."

 _Did you know these things? Did you know these things?_

"Thank you, universe. I should be like, Greek tragedy, turned-to-stone batshit crazy, but I'm good, I have got this, I'm fine, I'm telling you I'm amazing I'm saving lives left and right and people, are fighting to hear me lecture."

 _There's a little feeling in your chest, as you sit in the lecture hall, being wrapped gently with layer upon delicate little protective layer as her grand beautiful sculpturesque design builds before you. And Amelia's trademarked mix of doubt and determination is unfolding before you under harsh stage lights._

"I am entertaining, joke, joke—"

 **He would be shaking in his grave.**

"joke I'm funny I'm fun I'm a party I'm doin—I'm great."

You can't recall. If the world beyond the girl before you could possibly be moving like normal.

"I'm handling the Dead Derek thing really well. Except. Today, I yelled at Richard… who was only trying to invite me for coffee."

"And then I went and scored oxy from this junkie doctor."

The way her voice has lowered, stilled, you're not sure you can stand on your own two feet, let alone try to catch this girl who is so clearly falling.

"But you haven't… taken it?"

"Not yet." You exhale this strange relief: like if worry were a hydra that grows back heads as soon as you feel any thankfulness, you're relieved, but the knot of worry remains untouchably taut. She makes a little half-sigh, what could have been a bit of a laugh, and when she speaks her voice is so dangerous that you freeze before it.

"But I might." The smile she wears is extraordinary in its radiant falsity. "That's the thing."

"I really actually might."

"I have been sober for one thousand, three hundred and twenty-one days."

The concept of something like arithmetic is so far from your focus, but somehow the number 3.6 is handed up to you. 3.6 years but everything about how she measured in _days_ —

"I was fine. It was _managed_."

"But I might."

"You've held out this long. I think you know… that you don't want to," you start cautiously.

"Oh, I very much fucking want to."

All you can think is what oxycodone can do to bodies, what it might do to her. _Apnea, seizure, vomiting, depressed respiration, loss of consciousness, cold clammy skin, slowed heartbeat, heart failure_ —

"Derek died. He died. I don't want to feel it, I don't think I can, I don't think I even want to—"

"Amelia," your voice falters over her name. "Listen. He did. He died. It's not okay. And… you can't keep just managing it, because it's not okay. It doesn't have to be. So you're making jokes. And Meredith ran away. And Kepner and Hunt left too. And now you're thinking that…" She's shaking her head.

It's not going to work, what you're saying. Maybe the gap between what you know and where she is can't be closed.

"Amelia. These are the things we do when we don't think it's okay to be how we are."

"I can't. I can't."

You want to reach out, but you wait. You wait.

She holds out the little bag (unbelievably little for something with such immensely destructive possibilities) and you ignore the slightly panicked feeling that you don't have any idea what to do. You do the only thing; you touch your hand to hers, your fingers catching the small muscle movements of hers that allow you to tug it out of her hold.

When she falls to the ground, you might gain an idea of what it means to accept unbearable pain, the way your chest and throat seize. In how that idea keeps you stiff as you join her, your hands stretching. In the way she sobs, gasping for air like there's something inside of her rejecting the air she needs, or some gaping maw or underground stream pulling more than she can get.

You've never even seen a person missing so much, anyone in so much pain.

Later, you have her sitting on a bench, wrapped in a blanket, despite protests. You've sat with her in silence. You've talked for hours. You've brought dishes outside and back in to the kitchen.

You ask her if she'd like to go inside now, and after a moment, she nods, mouth momentarily drawn to one side. You rise and offer her your hands. She takes them to stand, and you take one back to pull the quilt off her shoulders. She says something like thank you. For the first time in a while, she looks at you. She looks at you.

You know about thunder. When you look at her face, and you can see almost everything, it isn't enough. Eyes, clear as the kind of day you're used to spending seeking shade. When you look at her lips, and you know what you're going to do, you are for a moment reduced to ions and synapses. When you kiss her, she is lightning.


	4. 4

-maggie-

On the morning of January 2nd, you are attempting to discuss a patient's treatment when it becomes impossible to ignore what you've started.

"Doctor Pierce," Arizona's voice rings out, and you turn to see her blonde curls powering down the hallway towards her. That's her _I'm an Attending_ walk. "A consult?"

You barely get a chance to excuse yourself from the nurse before she sweeps you into an on-call room. The door is still closing when she visibly deescalates her professional demeanor and semi-gently smacks you in the arm.

"Ow, what—"

"Oh, shh. How come you made me think you wanted me to go check on Amelia when _you_ ," she puts her hands on your cheeks, "just want to know if you want to kiss her?" and by now your ears are probably as red as they feel. But she quickly searches your eyes, leans in and kisses you. The fact that it's so gentle, so tender and genuine catches you off-guard almost as much as the fact that it's happening at all. It's a friend kiss, that much is clear, but one that says _I love you_. And then after a tiny, _I want you to be okay_ second kiss, she pulls away. "So what do you think?" She's asking: _what do you think about kissing girls_. You open your mouth and not even a sound comes out. Well.

"Well." You brace yourself. "I think I liked kissing her better."

"WHAT. And what exactly—"

"But I don't know if she's talking to me and I'm kind of freaking out," you cut off Arizona's tirade, waving a hand nervously. "Wait, _you_ talked to her?"

"Because _you_ just have a _giant crush_ on her."

Your hand falls as you feel your mouth drop open disbelievingly. "How is that a helpful response?"

"Okay okay," she changes tack. "I've dealt with this before."

"I bet you have," you scoff back.

"Hey," she warns, but she can't act like it wasn't a fair response. "Well, what happened after you kissed?"

"It was awful. I mean, it was okay, but no one said anything about it and it was after this really emotional… _thing_ and, and I kind of just went home after a while."

"What emotional thing, was it about you two?"

"No, it wasn't about me. But that's all I can say."

Arizona pulls a face kind of like _yikes_ , which is entirely unhelpful. "Well that's not super encouraging. Wait, what do you even want this to be anyway?"

"Oh, my god, I don't know."

"Okay, well you can work that out. I've stayed colleagues and friends with lots of girls I've kissed."

"Even straight ones?" She hesitates to answer, and there goes your hand again.

"Yes, yes, even some of the straight ones. It'll be fine, it's gonna be fine," she finishes with a winning smile, the kind you've seen her use on what she calls the makers of the tiny humans.

"Great, this talk was super calming," you grouse. "And, by the way," you give her another face, "I haven't said I've never kissed girls before." While you turn to leave, you catch a glimpse of her doing that irritatingly cute Arizona thing: briefly looking up and tilting her head in consideration.

-amelia, minutes later-

You slide up next to Callie, who is seemingly absorbed in a chart. "Hey, Callie."

"Hello, Doctor Sheperd," she sings back cheerfully.

"I got kissed yesterday."

"What—who, Owen?"

"Nope. They do work here though. What is going on with this hospital, I mean really?"

"Oh I know, right? At first it was great; I could meet people who can't keep their hands off me while I'm walking down the hall. But _then_ , they couldn't keep their hands off anyone else either," she finishes dryly, looking up from the chart to emphasize her disgruntlement. You can't help an amused smirk. "But what about this? Was it good?"

"It was… a surprise."

"Is it going anywhere?"

"No. No! It was friendly."

"It was… a friendly kiss?"

"Well… it was a friend."

"Yeah, look out for those, they got me in—hoo boy, did they get me in trouble. So good luck with that," she adds with a raised eyebrow before she gestures at something and walks away.

-arizona, a few hours later-

 _You would know that walk, that hair, anywhere_. You immediately try to shake the thought, and decide to almost spite it by catching up to the woman striding down the hall.

"Hey, Calliope." She smiles at you. Good sign. "You know, hey, you should be friends with Amelia. I think you'd get along."

"Who, Dr. Sheperd? No, she doesn't wanna be friends with me, c'mon, she's a little more party than I am these days," she dismisses, as usual at the idea of anyone possibly enjoying her, her company or whatever... her smile... or anything other than her medical skills. "Although… she did come talk to me about something this morning…."

"About what, about—about what?" you anxiously jump on the lead, trying to keep pace with Callie.

"She said somebody kissed her, didn't say who though, only that they work here." You're quiet a few moments too long, because she stops cold and finally turns to you. "But you know, don't you." Narrowed eyes. Not a question.

"No, I really—"

"Arizona, spill it, who?"

"All right all right," you wave her down and lean in just a bit to lower her voice, _ignoring your thoughts when Calliope also leans in_ , "Maggie Pierce."

Callie's eyebrows go right up. "Maggie Pierce, as in Meredith Grey's sister, who is Amelia's sister-in-law? Is that, is that allowed?"

"Oh come on, they're not related."

"Practically though. Like pretty much."

"Oh shush, but what did she say about it?"

"I quote. _It was friendly._ " Even with how oblivious Callie can be at times, she has no trouble reading your reaction. "But that's not your side, is it. Oh my _god_ , Maggie _Pierce_!"

"I _know_ , right? But oh my god what do I tell her?" Callie responds with a face like _yikes_ , as if to say _good luck with that_ , and just turns to continue striding down her path.

-maggie, that afternoon-

Of all the supply closets in all the hospital, _of course she's in this one_.

"Oh, um… Dr. Sheperd, I'm so sorry…" you try.

"Maggie," she nods, some kind of frustratingly knowing twinkle in her eye.

"Listen, I shouldn't have," you falter on saying the words _kissed you_ , "and I mean, that was such terrible timing, I'm just, I'm so sorry, if there's anything I can do to make it up to you…"

In a low voice, and with a smile, she suggests, "stop apologizing?"

"What?"

"Believe it or not, you're not the only one who's ever made a pass at a friend at a bad time." It's not a kind voice, but it's friendly.

It takes a minute, but you finally go, "oh. So… friends?" The relief that blooms under your xiphoid process could save a small town.

"Yeah, we're friends, goofball."

-maggie, weeks later-

You're home, although you don't know why. Why would you be here, when Meredith showed up only hours ago? So far, you've undercooked the dinner you haven't eaten; you've spent most of your time just existing anxiously when you hear a familiar knock.

It takes only seconds to throw the door open, whereupon you find her in a soft white sweater and black pants, pulling at the edges of her sleeves: she watches you, and though the concept wouldn't occur to you until later, it's almost warily. "Amelia! Did she tell you anything? What did she say?"

She just keeps looking at you, eyes shiny. Despite the bigness of whatever's happening in her head or her heart, she seems small.

You are only eyes and a constricted throat and hands that have forgotten what to do, and when she sees this, she nods once to herself and seems to make some decision. She steps through the doorway, and closes the door behind her, with both hands behind her back, chin tilted like the girl who dared you to change on Christmas Eve. You distinctly notice that her hair, drawn into a ponytail, is parted on the left, almost as if most of you doesn't know how to handle comprehending everything else that's happening, or how quickly, because the shift in her demeanor has not released her hold on your airway, but it has reminded you that you have palms and fingers and ribs and a whole cardiovascular system. Amelia steps strategically to your left, so you instinctively take this half step diagonally backwards to make space for her in the narrow area, but she fills the space immediately and takes more, so you feel the wall on your back and anticipation pressing your chest as she places her hands on the wall on either side of your shoulders.

Both of your shallow breathing is unreasonably loud to you, as is your awareness of the space between her body and yours, until it drops silent. The request comes quietly. "Can I kiss you?"

You nod. And her mouth is on your neck, her nails digging into your waist, like she's trying to pull something out of you that is no longer there. Not your breath, but she's taking every hot gasp of it too, along with every push of your palms and pull of your lips.

She doesn't settle, she's always pushing back, even when you take her wrists and kiss her carotid artery until she half-moans something that could be part of your name. Something more powerful than you had let yourself think about surges along your sternum, some kind of idea about what you could be to her. Your fists are full of that soft white sweater; she nods, her open lips catching yours, and you drag it upwards until she takes over, taking the hem around her arms and you can put your hands flat on her bare skin, pressing into the soft give, and from there individual moments mostly blend, leaving extreme awareness only in flashes. The tips of your teeth drawing the texture of the inside of her lip. The tension of your bra, released. How your skin reacts to open air, tightening. The changes in her breathing, sharp inhalations and slow gasps. Her, her, her.

When her hands have left tracks on your back and started tracing the waistline of your pants, she slows. Her lower lip gently snags yours before it falls back into place as she rests her head against the wall. Whatever she was looking for, you don't see it in her eyes. She thanks you. She nods one more time, but this time is not permission. It is apology. She doesn't touch you. She doesn't close the door behind her.


	5. 5

-amelia-

You can't see the garment, but you know. She wears basic cotton underwear.

You know because your fingertips are trailing over the surface covered by her cotton underwear. The grain of cloth, that particular easy give of the material, it's easy. Cotton. Possibly white, maybe blue or pink. A basic stitched hem separates the thin material from the bare skin of her leg, which you deliberately, maddeningly, carefully brush before you return to the cloth.

You're at Karev's house. He's been out of the room with Jo, leaving just you and Maggie sitting to your left on her couch. When you had toyed with the hem of her skirt, flowing just above her knee, you had her quiet attention. When you had trailed your nails along the skin of her thigh, pressing just gently enough to pull a little dimple, you had her caught breath.

When you placed the pads of your fingers upon her underwear, you had her gaze upon you, which you, crooked smile upon the corners of your mouth, chose not to meet. Her heart in eyes locked on your face, and her focus playing on a mouth breathing a strange arrhythmic pattern. Keeping your eyes trained on the doorway through which Alex might appear at any moment, you drop the penny-sized circles to dare in a warmer direction. She breathes a shallow, steady one-two, then—slides her knees further apart. You've never done this.

You've never done this with a girl. For all your charisma, your breathing has all but stopped, which you would be aware of if your awareness of the girl next to you wasn't so consuming, your awareness of the gentle U under your fingertips, of the little bump just below that curve. Of the way her breath catches in her throat, of the tension in her shoulders, of the little bump and how pressing or passing over gently feels different from every other part of her so far and—

A flash from the doorframe and before the time you've blinked and Karev has fully appeared, your hand has smoothly retreated back to your own knee.

After he finishes his beer, you make some excuse, and walk out.

-maggie-

You find her the next morning in the attendings' lounge. She's stretched out on a wide armchair in front of half-closed blinds, one elbow on each arm. "Amelia. What was that?"

"That… was nothing."

"I know you don't want it to mean much to you."

She has some kind of convincing half-smirk for you, and a humored (but telling) glance away. "Are you saying, what, what are you saying, that you want to go on a date or something?" Hot blood fills in your cheeks. "Listen, the last time kissing someone who works at this hospital meant something, it… it just wasn't very professional," she states casually.

Despite knowing better, you bristle. "You think I can't be professional?"

She pauses. Shrugs. "No need to be. Because there's nothing going on here."

 _Stop using me. Or at least stop acting like that's all it is_. You try to stifle your fuming for a second before letting loose. "See, I don't think it's that you think it's not professional. I think you're afraid, so that's big talk from you about how I should deal with people, by the way. You're afraid to get involved with people, and I want to know why," your voice softens, almost in spite of yourself.

She looks at you frustratedly before letting the truth spill out, the way she tends to do. "Great job, doc, you shrinked me. When James proposed, I fled the goddamn state. No, I don't want to get involved with anyone."

"Amelia…"

"Don't do that." You find her fascinating, brilliant, breathtakingly human. And selfish.

She's counting on the space you like to keep. "Look, I'm sorry. But… you should understand why you need to stop doing this to me."

-callie, minutes later-

When you walk into the lounge, you've filled your cup with coffee before — _shit!_ — you notice Sheperd sitting along the wall.

"You scared me, I didn't even see you there… Amelia? What's up?"

"When… there was this time that I was trying to say goodbye to my friend Michelle. I said, _I love you_. And she said, _I know_. Do you think… do you think she knew something more than I did?" And her inquiry ends so questioningly, so genuinely, so uncertainly, so _earnestly_ that you pause before you answer. It might not be wise to give a leading opinion.

"Maybe she did." _Damn it, what was that?_ It's Amelia's turn to pause.

" _OH_ my GOD."

"Uh, but also—" you try to intervene, but it's too late.

"So what am I? How long have people known before me? HAHA, _what?_ "

"Oh. Uh…."

"I have to call Charlotte. No! I'm not calling Charlotte!?"

"Listen, Amelia, it's not anything you have to freak out about. It's actually kind of awesome," you say, offering a smile.

She suddenly glares right at you. "Are you telling me you didn't freak out?"

"Ha. Ask Addison." She looks like she's seen a ghost. _Oh, shit, she hadn't thought about her people yet_. Her pager goes off, and she blinks once, then once more after she's looked at it.

"See you around, Torres."

-amelia, weeks later-

Your hand stills on the doorknob. It's late.

It wasn't your fault. You were in surgery, and the kid… it wasn't like his chances were any good. He was someone's brother, though. And he died while you were cutting open someone else.

A shake of the head covers a sniff. You're already hours late to take over the kids from Maggie, who is obviously still awake, because the house is lit up like— Oh. She's fallen asleep on the couch, phone resting on her stomach. _Okay… just turn off this set of lights first_.

"Hello?"

You resist a sigh. "Hi, I just got here, sorry I'm late."

"A little bit." She yawns. "Oh gosh, I didn't mean to fall asleep. Well the kids are in bed, so I'll see you around," she starts, standing in the half-light.

"It's late. You should stay."

"No, I can get home," she says, clearly.

"Maggie," you start, but out of nowhere, your voice fails in the last almost indiscernible second of speech and maybe it'll pass for tired but nope, she's looking, and she's seen the face you couldn't get under control.

For a moment, she might let it be.

"Amelia?"

"I lost a patient." Sometimes being upfront scares people off, so they'll drop it.

"That's terrible, I'm so sorry. What happened?"

And when you go to speak, to explain how his chances were minimal, but to see a person slowly and inexorably walk into their death is just as terrible as the violence of someone unexpectedly dying, just in different ways except for the horrible fact itself, you find there are sounds other than words rising out of your chest. And by the time you've blinked rapidly and forced your face to lay flat, Maggie's almost close enough to—

"I didn't save him," finally tumbles out of your mouth. "He _saved_ me. And I—I didn't save him."

 **I just wanted you to stay little, and quiet, and safe.**

She places a hand on your arm; not anything suggestive, almost conspicuously restrained. Just on your upper arm, just below the bicep. You study this hand for a brief moment, hearing your brother's words, then look up.

 **But you're not any of those things.**

"Maggie…" The woman instinctively reacts, looks right at you like neither of you have been avoiding this, and seems to find much more than she expected.

-maggie, now-

Just as quickly as it took to look, you're breathless.

Amelia has never been good at hiding herself, and maybe she's never really been interested. But it's clear as day. As though narrating, your mind supplies this sentence: she doesn't know she might love the girl she's looking at.

It's not long before you suggest bed. You settle back into the couch, listening to footfalls and the click of a door as you draw a blanket over your head. If only to let yourself sleep, you muster a fair amount of maturity and write it off to something like wishful, stupid thinking.

a/n: loving the comments you guys have sent in, i've been hoping to convince people to see what i see. sorry this one is shorter, but i'd love to hear what yall think so far. just two chapters left :o


	6. 6

-maggie, a week later-

You hear it before you understand anything else.

Before you feel your cheekbone jammed into compressed feathers and before shoulders become the only other body part you're aware of possessing, before it occurs to you that it's too dark to see even if you were to open your dead tired eyes, you hear the pounding. The realization that it's on your door strikes with an immediate sense of dread.

The sound leads you past the kitchen where, terrified, you silently collect a knife. Eyes open wider than they're ready to be, you try not to jump at subsequent sets of knocking, and gather the courage to size one eye to the little brass ring of your peephole. Then open the door.

"What the hell? What time is it, Amelia?"

"Let's round to two. Hey, I'm driving to Los Angeles."

It takes a minute. "Right… right now?"

"Yes. Come with me?"

"It's 2 AM."

"I think we covered that. Come on, Pierce, it'll be fun." She seems to take the silence for suspicion, rather than blankness. "I miss my friends, okay?"

You consider this a moment, with all the capacity of the hour. "Okay. Come in." She breezes through the door, grabs the hand not holding a knife and welcomes herself into the bedroom.

"All right. Get dressed."

You throw some items on the bed, where she helpfully stuffs them into a bag. The absurdity of the hour does little to quell the redness you feel at the tops of your ears when you slip your shirt off, but if she notices, you can't tell.

It takes fourteen little green crystalline lines for the dashboard clock to compose the time when Amelia turns the key. For a moment, the world is only the engine sounding into the silence and the time 2:18, before the headlights flash on (somehow smaller than usual, as if out of respect for the time of night).

"You can sleep," she suggests in a voice that's more raspy than clear, as she fiddles with the aux cord.

"Says the one who woke me up, like 20 minutes ago." She looks completely unharrassed. "Don't mind if I do."

But if you would have expected to doze off by the time you're past the city, a simmering sense of adventure keeps you. The headlights are catching edges of thick forest, their dim reflected light brushing the silhouette of Amelia's face and an arm she keeps outstretched to the top of the wheel, both entities containing so much more than you can fathom when your world is contentedly just what the light reaches.

She bites the inside of her cheek, eyes focused on the road. "I lied."

"Amelia?"

"My favorite song isn't by M.I.A. It's this one. _Like Real People Do_ , Hoziay? Hozhurr? However you say it?"

 _I had a thought, dear, however scary._

Your smile is as soft as the rest of you, wrapped up in a blanket, seatbelt just pressing into your neck. Amelia nervously steals a glance.

 _I will not ask you and neither would you._

It's not much, but it's enough.

-three hours later-

"Hey. Pierce. Hey. You wanted me to wake you up for the sunrise. Look up that way."

It's true. There's grey light, and east there are some orange-edged sparse clouds above the mountain, in a basically normal sunrise. You think for a moment.

"Tell me about your friends."

"Um, Addison has been like a sister since we were little. She was married to Derek, but now she's married to Jake, who's this like, gentlemanly stud of a fertility specialist, very popular with the ladies. She used to date Sam, who is the perfect man. Cardio, like you. Sheldon is a shrink. So is Violet. Don't tell Violet anything, she'll put it in some book about her own journey or whatever. Her best friend is Cooper, who she described as a man-child in her book, I'm not kidding. Best friends. He's peds, and just totally lovable. He's married to Charlotte, who is a bit hard to get to know but she's totally boss. And badass. Oh hey, that's a gas station, let's see if they have coffee."

Amelia swerves the car in a little roughly.

"Ok, so you go get snacks and I'll deal with the gas, deal? Do you mind driving for a bit?" You shake your head, stretch, and stroll into the little station. The cashier takes forever. Amelia's already in the passenger seat, so you dump the goods unceremoniously onto her lap, then start talking as you pull back onto the road.

"Check it out. Gushers. I knew people at school who thought their heads would really turn into watermelons."

"How young are you?" Amelia jests. "Ooh, Bugles."

"Hey so this is what, a thirteen hour road trip?"

A pause. "Like seventeen."

"And you couldn't fly?"

"Oh, you know. Weather."

It's been fairly still. You don't risk a glance. But you can't help focusing a little more closely on part of her out of the corner of your eye. "Amelia. What's going on?"

She busies herself with changing the music. "I need Charlotte to go to a meeting with me." _Oh_. "There's alcohol in airports. And waiting." _Oh_. "And you… you can go into gas stations and buy just coffee."

Maybe Meredith is rubbing off on you, because you just say, "alright."

-amelia-

Here in the passenger seat of your own car, you can watch the land stretching out or up or stomach-droppingly down beside you, and you can watch the driver. You leisurely consider things you've noticed more briefly, since you've all the time in the world. You relax your shoulders into the seat, feeling the sun on half your arm, and let yourself think about the types of earth around you, and Maggie. Her cute lisp, almost a little rasp decorating some sentences. The exact color of her hands under warm sun on the top of the steering wheel, light glinting off a dull little copper band she wears on the middle finger of her left hand. But what might be your favorite are the unamused eyes she puts on when she asks you, "What are you looking at?"

 _You're cute. Like, really, goddamn pretty._

But you know you can't say something like that without messing with the slight smirk of a mood, so you just say, "thanks for driving."

-maggie, about 900 miles later-

Amelia calls Charlotte at 8:30 PM.

"Hey, what are you up to?" You focus very hard on the hundreds of taillights ahead, trying not to eavesdrop. "Can you go to a meeting with me?" A pause. "Yeah I wish. Just kidding. I'm actually rolling into town right now." _{Amelia! Are you serious?}_ a loud Southern accent stretches out. She _chuckles_ as the other woman keeps talking. "Okay, I'll see you at like, 9:15."

Then she calls Addison.

"Hey, Addie." _{Amelia, how are you?}_ "I'm good. Hey, can a friend and I stay at your place tonight?" There's a long pause. Again, you turn your attention away from the conversation, picking up only tones: playful, surprised, excited. A little while later, it takes a moment to connect that words are now being directed toward you.

"You're going to like them," Amelia is saying.

And indeed you do. With Amelia and Charlotte off at a meeting, there's plenty of time for Addison to offer a generous glass of red wine, and another one, and for you to meet her friends as they trickle in through the door one by one, having heard and expressing surprise that Amelia is in town. And somehow there are six kids playing on the rug, who might as well be cousins for how familiar they behave.

But the best part is when Charlotte brings her back, and you get to watch her face change as her friends clamor about the arrival. She's never looked so earnest, almost innocent, as she does when she sees her friends filling Addison's hallway for her.

 _She's lovely_.

And then this grin just spreads across her cheeks, like she's ready to rage, or maybe roughhouse. She could be their littlest sister, home from study abroad.

Addison greets them with two flutes of ginger ale.

A little while later, you've settled on one end of Addison's couch with your elegantly shaped glass of wine, going from feeling like a friend invited home for dinner on a school night, to feeling warmly welcomed to a holiday.

"So what'd she tell you about us?" Charlotte asks from your right, also settled on one end of the couch.

"Not very much. She did say you're badass, though."

"Damn right." Her smirk tells you this was a good response. After a brief exchange of basic polite small talk, something about the set of her jaw and the glimmers of affection in eyes surveying the room compels you to ask more.

"What was she like? When she was here?"

You can tell Charlotte is sizing you up, deciding how honestly to answer. "You a good friend of Amelia's?"

"She woke me up at two this morning to invite me here." She smiles, though worry pushes a tiny crease between her eyebrows, and nods.

"I heard all about her glioblastoma, so she still thinks she can work miracles. Sounds like Amelia has connections to people in the hospital, but they're not her best friends. I've met em, they ain't quick to warm to people, even the ones they've claimed as their own. It makes sense, with what they've lost. They say what we fear most has already happened to us, so Meredith and her friends have a wide range of fears to choose from… but Amelia, too… from what I've heard about Owen, compared to James and well… Ryan, I think she's less willing to give away her heart these days."

Your eyebrows knit up slightly, and you let this sensation overpower the ideas unfolding under your sternum. Questions stumble over each other in your mind and before they can order themselves, she follows up some thought of her own. "You know, she didn't always hold your gaze so easily. But she is so brave, she has always been so brave."

"You're proud of her," you say, just a little more softly than you'd meant to. She doesn't answer you directly, and it occurs to you that she keeps her loves very close to her heart.

Not even two seconds later, Amelia comes crashing onto the middle section of the couch, sprawling with one shoulder up to Charlotte's. The looks of contentment on their faces makes you homesick enough to look away. You lean forward to speak to one of the little girls traversing every possible path around the room, only for Amelia to fold one arm and rest it on your back. The comfortable, playful proximity soothes for a moment, and by the time some kind of discomfort begins to trail up your spine she's moved away.

Addison approaches, a well-rehearsed host. "So there's the guest room, and there's the couch, whatever is more comfortable."

"Oh we'll just sleep in the guest room, it's no big." It's quite a presumption, which goes unnoticed by everyone but you.

-amelia, bedtime-

It's weird to turn down the sheets on Addison's guest bed. Same as the last hundred times, but it's one hell of a miniscule way to remember you're not. The same, that is. Their coolness lasts only moments before warming against your arms.

She's pretending not to hesitate by the corner of the bed.

You pretend not to notice. When she does slide in, you pretend not to be acutely aware of where she is, but that's just for you.

"Thanks for coming with me," you carefully place out into the darkness.

Fingertips brush your palm, supine along the mattress. The anatomical terms are extension then abduction for what you do, the universal signal _put your fingers here with mine_ , and she does. Then she revokes her hand, and you think you might breathe clearly.

"Amelia," rises low out of her throat like getting pushed by a wave, and she can't take back the insecure, the questioning, the desirous resonances, but somehow you're sliding so you're half on top of her, so you can put your mouth on hers, trying to send them back inside her. If you can give them back, then they're not yours; they're not inside you too.

But her cheeks are warm and her lips are soft, her hands are slow and you're illuminated. This isn't kissing like playing with sparks; this is kissing like lighting up a fireplace. As quickly as you couldn't stand the space between you, you suddenly can't bear the deafening repercussions, and if you could put miles between you and any more of her waves catching up to you, you would.

You pull away from her, trying not to see the way her eyes open, trying not to see how she looks at you. You take your hands away too, while you slink away, and try not to notice how her hands follow you for a fraction of a second. "I'm sorry."

She's quiet for a minute, and when she does speak, it's slowly. "I think I should go to the airport." You try to let your relief overcome the sinking feeling.

It is kind of what you'd wished for, after all.


	7. 7

_[A synapse includes the space between one neuron's axon terminals and another neuron's dendrites. Information, expressed in neurotransmitters telling us to move or speak or touch must travel through it, and the next neuron generates an electrical action potential.]_

-addison-

Charlotte greets Amelia as she quietly toes into your kitchen, planting a kiss on her head with a dry but happy "good morning, sunshine."

"We're making breakfast," you announce, lifting an oven mitt and a spatula. "Is your friend going to be down anytime soon?"

"Ah. No, she went to the airport. Surgery, you know." Her eyes linger on the counter before meeting yours.

"What's the story there? I've hardly heard anything about this girl from you, and yet you just wake her up in the middle of the night and she goes from Seattle to Los Angeles with you?"

"She kissed me."

"She kissed you?"

"Then I kissed her." _Is Seattle turning all my friends gay_?

"So what does that mean to you?" Charlotte asks, after you share a look.

"I think I messed up."

Your hand goes to your hip. "What's going on, Amelia?"

It takes her a moment of rocking her palm against the edge of your island.

"I think I might be leading her on. But I don't know how much of it is... real."

"So she's gay."

"I don't know, she dated this guy Ethan for like, months."

"Well is this just a physical thing then?"

"I thought so, but I don't think it is anymore at least. But this is just stuff, can we talk about-"

"Right right, you don't know how much you're leading her on."

"Well, let's talk," Charlotte says.

-maggie-

You stare, wide-eyed, at Amelia and Meredith. **When do you decide to turn your back on a sad tragic situation?** Your brain seems to be playing catch up, somehow unable to keep pace with your eyeballs' movements between the sisters. Still examining the car puzzle from every angle, trying to see where you could disassemble and place the extra parts.

Oh. That angle.

But when you realize what Amelia is talking about, it only takes a glance to see that Meredith hasn't quite placed it yet. Oh wait; now she has. But in what seems like the next moment, they're alone. You try to toss some kind of apologetic explanation at Mer, and leave.

In the past weeks, things have been awkward. You haven't avoided each other, but you don't seek each other out either. It's by chance that you catch sight of Amelia, and shortly hang up on your dad. "Amelia," escapes your mouth, after you coolly step aside in the hallway. You inspect the slight downward jerks in the corner of her mouth, the just noticeable water in her eyes. "Would you like to give me your opinion on something?" you ask and gesture toward a nearby supply closet, and she decides to follow you. "Amelia—"

"I just finished talking to your sister," she says, not quite facing you. You're not sure what to say.

"God, I just— I just don't understand. She should have called me, she should. Have. Called me." You feel yourself nodding a little bit, your left eyebrow knotted. "I don't know why she just, she just gave up."

There are a million things to say, but none of them seem right quickly enough. She looks at you, eyes, bright, shining, mouth twisted. Then she leaves.

-arizona, avery-webber wedding-

It's a wedding, and yet your arm is around one devastated half of a marriage. You would be almost at a loss for what to say except… you know the pain where April is. "I know… I know, I do."

She nods. She knows you do. In fact, it's all you can do to stop your own heart breaking again, seeing her here, seeing a heart broken the same way. A little time passes.

"Why don't I just date girls?" she despairs bitterly, maybe in some attempt to minimize her pattern of loss, this pattern of Reed, the boards, her job, her baby, her husband. You know all this, and yet you can't help turning slightly away and rolling the fuck out of your eyes.

"You know, the last time a woman suggested dating girls to me, I kissed them. So watch out. But I promise, it's not easier."

"No, no, you're right, I'm sorry." She settles back into your shoulder, only to perk up a moment later. "Wait, who?"

-owen-

Maggie Pierce has just disguised a sniff, somehow different from happy wedding tears as you glance at her across the room, and the slightly delayed realization just barely flusters as you open the door.

 _Impossible posture_. That's the first thought you have when you accidentally interrupt Amelia doing… whatever she's doing. And it's the thought that distracts you until you realize she's looking at you. Like you've brought an answer into the room.

"I was just going to listen to a message. But I can't… bring myself to hit play." You sit, understanding the quiet request. You bring one fingertip to the phone.

 _{Hey, it's me.}_

-meredith-

Good, maybe Maggie will come talk to you next time. She seems to have heard you. Amelia appears, as if drawn to sisters.

"What are you crying about?"

"What are you crying about?"

First one, then the other, with an intriguing level of teasing. Maggie rests her head on Amelia's shoulder. This interaction reminds you that you have questions, but now it's not time for that. You know what you and Cristina would do.

"Okay. We have to dance it out."

-maggie-

Jackson, to general delight, requests the guests' attention. "Thank you all for coming. We have a request for a waltz mixer, and I expect to see you," he draws out the word, "all out there." He largely ignores the groans, instead saying to Callie, "I know you know how," subsequently pointing out several other starters.

She rolls her eyes. "Alright…" her eyes fall upon her victim as the surprisingly un-mopey music begins. "Owen, get out here with me."

"Uh—what? No, no I uh—"

"I don't care. Put your hands here. Now look, for you it's forward, sideways, aaand back oh come on."

Shortly enough, Jackson declares, "and mix!" and you can't help laughing at how Owen's face lights up then melts. He's not free. All the dancers are inviting new partners onto the floor.

Callie pulls a protesting Amelia Shepard toward her. She picks up the steps well enough for any fumbles to blend into the haphazard crowd.

You're watching Arizona's face as she realizes Callie is now heading towards her (an amused smile lost to shock, which hardly fades as Calliope draws her in closer), so you miss Amelia's approach. She extends her hand, and says dramatically, "may I have this dance?"

"I don't think I can say no." Your smirk betrays you.

"Wow, that's charming," is the low, sarcastic response. "Alright, so my hand goes here." She brings her hand confidently to your waist. "And you rest this hand here on my shoulder, super delicate-like," she laughs. "This is such an Avery thing to do."

You catch sight of Jackson dancing with Meredith. "It's kind of cute though."

"Yeah, I guess so," Amelia responds, though you realize a few moments later, she barely glanced towards them.

"And mix!"

"May I cut in?" Richard has asked for your hand. Amelia backs away with a smile, and catches Meredith's arm.

"Congratulations, Richard."

"Thank you, Maggie," he smiles, beaming really.

"How does it feel?"

"You know, there were so many times it looked like it wasn't gonna happen. I'm so happy it did. The important thing is to push past whatever gets between two people. It took me a long time to learn how to meet Catherine in the middle, and now we're here, celebrating with our friends and family. Oh, and thank you for coming."

"Oh, of course, it's been a beautiful day," you say, trying not to choke up.

-meredith-

You listen in loosely on the nearby conversation, while deadpanning to Amelia, "what is going on with you two?"

"What?" She makes a lame attempt to deny understanding.

"I picked up how she explained for you outside of the ambulance. When did that happen? How close are you?"

"I don't know. No, really."

"Well, figure it out. She's my sister, too. Really."

-maggie-

The song ends, prompting Jackson to charmingly thank everyone for participating, again ignoring the faux-disgruntled comments following several of the dancers off the floor. Arizona starts to turn away, or more accurately just barely thinks about turning away when Callie taps her shoulder and asks if she'd like to keep dancing.

You watch her hesitate. Nod. She gives Callie her left hand and places her right gently along her upper arm. They keep it to a loose little waltz or something; but three songs later they remain, sometimes busting out in laughter and sometimes dancing a little more closely. Unless of course, you're imagining things and it's just that their poses have relaxed.

"Hey." Amelia is just to your left, her back to the couple.

For a moment, they stand in this corner of their siblings' house.

A brother lost, a sister found.

"Can you come outside?"

-amelia-

"I think you're beautiful," she says, genuinely but guardedly. Almost more arresting than if she'd just said it, however fucked up that is. But she's chosen the words carefully, and you appreciate the effort, the changed language. It's an apology, from the first time she spoke to you in this house, and it might be some kind of declaration.

You nod, but before you can put together a response that organizes these impressions, she says more.

"I see the way you are when you're with Owen. He might be good for you." You should probably feel more embarrassed than you do. But then, it's not like you're listening for him. "Owen... has this incredible emotional depth. But I might have something, too."

The answer comes to you at once. _Lightness_. You could pour into him for the rest of your life, and he could always hold on to the worst of it for you for a while. Maggie's better at sometimes making things not so heavy.

"I'm not choosing between anyone."

She ignores this. "Amelia, I like you, but I don't like this. I need to know what I am to you." And the scrunched up look on her face tells you she's trying. She's been more vulnerable than she'd like to be. "And what you are to me."

 _[Impulses must generate a sufficiently strong signal to activate the neuron chain.]_

"I can't be what you want," you say, finally.

She nods. She seems to have already known. "As long as you stop this." And you can't meet her gaze anymore, you can't see the warm disappointment, the patient composure just edged with want.

A sudden, cold concern strikes you. "Maggie? Can we be friends, though? I really like being your friend."

There's a moment, then she nods, dipping her head with a half-smile that at least sort of reaches her eyes. Her voice is a little low, even a little more raspy with accepting than usual. "What else would we be?"

 _[Some signals never even make it to the gap.]_

a/n: they can't end up happily ever after, that's not where we see them in season 12... just means i'll probably have to write more. i have ideas, you might see them in the hiatus. in the meantime, despair with me. i'm so invested in them it's not even funny, like, this is the first writing i've done in years. ellie813, your enthusiasm has completely made my day more than once. jaid, sorry it's not what you wanted, but you helped me finish. thank you all for reading.


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